What We May Be
by HugAZombie
Summary: UNBETA'd. AU!Merlinverse: 'Sometimes even destiny can be mistaken.' SLASH
1. To Err is not Just Human

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__So this is a new story. Compared to the other two I'll post after 'Skin Deep' and 'First Times' it will be a slow update, mainly because I have yet to complete the planning of chapters. I just wanted to write something angsty, I'm in that mood aha. _

_This is inspired by the first one shot in 'Headphones will Deliver.' And the title comes from the Shakespeare quote: "__'we know what we are, but not what we may be."_

_Hope you enjoy. Remember, this will probably be a slow-update story. It is T for now. Will probably stay that way, but who knows. After posting this I'll start on Skin Deep – it should be posted tomorrow. __  
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><p><strong>Prologue: to Err is Not Just Human, but Divine<strong>

He looks to the sky; it's like there has been an ink spillage to smudge over the mistakes of the day. The innocent beauty of the stars contrast with the cruel intent of the night – the darkness after dusk is but a cloak to hide misdemeanours and shame. It is a cover for the discreet and the dishonourable, and a shield to the lonely and forgotten. Camelot may be seen as a beacon of hope in the sunlight but the shadows conceal the same demons as all hells' corners.

This is no bounty to be sought, there is no prize lingering within the cold stone of its walls. Pretty lies were all he had found here – pretty lies spoken by a winged serpent he should've known better then to trust. It was known to mislead him. He knew this within his first year – it sent his mother to death, knowing all the while it advised him that he would bring death upon her, Deaths' unwitting, wicked right hand.

Yet still he trusted it, trusted in the words it spoke – but he learnt that not all that glitters' is gold. The Dragon, the so-called Great one, solitary and alone, dealt only in Fools' Gold. Like a trickster on the street, a common conman bored with the centuries and desiring to be free. He had played the perfect little puppet, so naive and trusting – dangerous traits in the big bad world.

But no more. No longer will he be manipulated by outside forces. He is his own man and for too long he has listened to the words of others, walked the path others carved for him. It was a path that gave him nothing; momentary happiness with the one he loves – _loved_ – and a chance to play the hero. But no more. These are not roles he wants to play anymore: no longer will he be the princes' dirty little secret, a misdemeanour to hide in the shadows. No longer the secret little hero, willingly risking his life for a dream – nay, an _illusion – _only to be cast away in the face of Pendragon propaganda.

The Dragon was wrong. The only coin in their destiny was a just a copper penny painted prettily, pristine one side and burnt the other.

Let Pendragon be king. Let him rule how he chooses to rule. Let him move on and fulfil his duty to his kingdom.

And let him disappear into the night, exiled and disgraced, from the place he once called home. Let the world of Camelot move on without him, his destiny no longer lies within the confines of court life – he believes it never did.

He turns his gaze to the vague hint of Camelot, miles away from him now, and smiles a grim smile. He will no longer be controlled by fate or destiny, by secrecy and laws, by dragons or Pendragons.

His path is his own and he shall carve it into the fabric of time with his own two hands.


	2. A King is nothing without his Kingdom

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__Next chapter, yay me :] When I have fully sorted out the chapters, this will be updated quicker__. this is shorter than I wanted, but never mind. _

_Whilst writing this I am listening to Evansecence – 'Fallen.' This will probably preserver through the whole writing process  
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><p><strong>Chapter one: A King is nothing without his Kingdom<strong>

The quiet of the night is broken only by one cloaked figure seeking refuge. He is welcome in most places and slips clear of those he is not. He melts into the darkness – it's as if he has always meant to belong among the shades. No one sees his face, only obscured features from beneath a large hood: a flash of skin or a glimpse of a smile, abstract slices of the whole picture that says all and nothing about him.

The Wanderer. Nothing is known about him accept he comes only where the need is greatest and asks for little in return. An angel but a devil. A saint but also a sinner. A dream of salvation and a nightmare of condemnation.

He is but a shadowed contradiction that can be trusted with everything and nothing.

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><p>He is the picture of glory, strength and courage. He has faced down demons and dragons and defeated them with the skill of his sword and the strength of his heart. He is determined, chivalrous and kind. He rules not with the iron fist of his father before him, but with mercy and consideration. He is wise beyond his years, capable and knowledgeable. His political mind had once not been so sharp but he has bettered since then under the tutorage of the council elders. He has learned humility and humbleness, but always carries with him the pride of his ancestors and the people he rules.<p>

Even now, on the brink of a war with creatures he can never hope to understand as anything other than malicious and magic he is poised and balanced. His swift mind calculates and adjusts, plans and plots: defence, offence, tactics, suggestions, advice.

The very creatures from hell and darkness threaten the sanctity and security of Camelot and he will not allow it. He has not allowed it. The sorcerers involved have made their demands, make threats of a siege, of mass slaughter and murder, of blood running in the streets. They speak of children murdered in their bed before they can even scream, of fathers hacked down before they can reach for a weapon and mothers stricken before they reach the bloody corpses of their young.

They speak of further nightmares summoned from the pits of the heathen imagination, moulded from clay, alchemy and the sacrifice of innocents.

And still he stands strong, his knights, loyal only to him beside him as they fight for the safety of the kingdom.

But even a wise king, one of poise and grace as he is, recognises when such efforts are not enough. For days they have battled. The godless creatures have yet to reach the lower citadel, but they encroach upon the surrounding forests. The sorcerers themselves remain cowardly, hiding in their shadows and letting their monsters to commit their evil will.

Camelot will not hold under such a relentless attack – the soldiers tire easily. The sorcerers are the ones who control the situation; the king has no way of finding their hideout. Scouts have tried but after the third came back, mutilated from their search – he has turned away from that option. No more men need die in what is obviously a hopeless endeavour.

The sorcerers attack at random, determined, the king believes, to wear them down before they venture a direct attack on the solid walls of Camelot. There is method to their madness, he knows, there is a reason to their seemingly unplanned attacks that have yet to reach the citadel. They have the power he knows, they could easily make the citadel if not the inner city, but why they do not remains unknown to him. A secret he needs to discover because that could be the key to the destruction of the sorcerers and the ending to this battle.

For now, whilst he thinks, the darkness of the late evening settles over his kingdom. A false sense of serenity tumbles with it, the lure of the stars peaceful but illusory. Nothing beneath the silent gaze of the moon is as innocent as it seems, and he knows even now those sorcerers plan their next attack and create their damned creatures with poison and magic.

And he can do nought to stop them.

He turns away from the window fiercely. This throne room is silent in the late hour, the candles burn into small stubs, flickering shadows across his walls – great clawed nothings that mimic the horror of days past. He paces back and forth. The throne in front of him seems to loom over him. He gazes at it and not for the first time does he feel unworthy. The crown feels heavy on his head, a dead weight of dread and strange iron helplessness.

He takes it off and leaves it on the cushioned seat. Both treasures his father left to him, and both he struggles under the weight of. The seat beside his own remains empty of warmth – no one has sat there since Catrina and no one worthy enough since Ygraine.

The king, usually so balanced during the light of the day crumbles now under the darkness of the night, concealing his shame and despair in the shadows that will never tell – secreting it away like he has so many other things.

He sits on the steps in front of his parents' legacy and rubs a hand down his face. He could send out another scouting party, but he has tried sending them in different direction – thinking maybe some of those knights would get past, or only the ones who were on the right track would suffer, but they all returned slaughtered and maimed for the kingdoms discovery, paraded like an obscene banner through the city as their horses faithfully returned. And the relentless fighting will never be the answer to this battle; his men will weaken, leaving Camelot for the taking. It seems most likely, that these sorcerers will win the battle through sheer persistence.

But he cannot allow that to happen. Camelot is his, his kingdom to protect, his duty – it is the reason for his existence and he will not lose that. Not now, not ever. No creatures summoned by cowards and criminals will take that from him.

"Sire, you must sleep."

The king does not start at the voice – it had been an expected interference. He looks up, facing the retired physician with a small smile. The shadows of the room do well to conceal his eyes from the scrutiny. The elderly man retired officially only a few months ago, leaving most of the work to his newly acquired apprentice, a young fellow named Gilli who had apparently returned looking for the traitor the king hadn't the heart to condemn to death but also couldn't forgive.

Five years, and the boy had blossomed under Gaius' teaching into a competent healer. His attitude toward the king however, remained only icily polite.

"Sleep evades me this evening."

"Somehow, I doubt you even tried." Gaius, too observant for his own good despite his age. Most would suspect an old man, concerned only with his potion and poisons, with healing and life and death, but he is so much more. He has seen things, endured things most haven't. He has a keen sense and a wise tongue – and the king wishes for neither right now.

"Arthur." The king looks up at the strange sound of his name on the physicians' lips. Since the sentencing five years ago, the man had remained only quietly polite to the king he had once nursed since childhood – the loss of the boy he had once considered a son outweighed it seemed a kinship from childhood.

Arthur could almost understand it.

"This will do you no good, sire, nor will it aid the people." Gaius steps closer. "You must recover your strength."

"Recovering my strength will not solve this," Arthur bites back, his mask slipping under the promises of secrecy the night vows.

"It will not," Gaius concedes. "But I have a suggestion that might." The blond king gazes at the man in front of him. Gaius doesn't bow under the scrutiny – why would he when he never done so for his father. He is proud man, but his pride is unlike Arthur's old arrogance, this is the pride of age.

"Why didn't you say before?" Words cold as ice, but Gaius doesn't even flinch. He has faced the flames and the betrayal of his king and close friend – spitting ice from deceased kings' son is nothing but pitiful in comparison.

"Because I doubt you will approve," is the reply. Such certainty, such faith in his words. What Arthur believes sometimes to be a mask in his own mind, is truth here for Gaius.

"I should decide what I do or do not approve."

"Of course sire." Gaius inclines his head, a natural gesture of reverence to ones' ruler. "There is one that the people talk of, the Wanderer. He is known to help those in need, with problems akin to this one, as well as others."

"A vigilante?"

The king is unsure is Gaius bristles under the words or if it is simple a trick of the dancing candlelight. "Nothing so crude, sire."

"Is he loyal to Camelot, or have some other affiliation?"

"He is loyal to those in need, sire."

Arthur stands, moving to the window pensively. A bat flutters past the window. "Payment?"

"I wouldn't know sire." The king nods to himself, and gaze still focused outside.

"That sounds acceptable. Why did you think I'd disprove?"

There is a hesitant silence now and Arthur turns to look at Gaius, old friend and loyal to Camelot. "He is said to be a sorcerer, sire."

Arthur grits his teeth and turns his gaze back to the window.

"Some sayings say to fight fire with fire, snakes with snakes," Gaius says. "Why not magic with magic?"

"Because magic is not welcome here," Arthur hisses, "it undermines everything my father established."

"Then there is little else I can advise you, sire," Gaius says quietly. Without aid, Camelot will burn and you cannot fight for ever, you are not immortal." And with that the chamber is once again silent, Gaius leaving without dismissal as if the cover of night not only hides shame and secrets but drains manners.

Arthur closes his eyes and grinds his teeth. He turns from the window and strides from the room. Night-time is for hiding weakness, he thinks, not for decision making. And so he turns his back on the lull of the night sky and sleeps, unknowing that the decision has already been made for it is not only the night that hides the truth, but also denial.


End file.
